


putting the dog to sleep

by parsnipit



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Forgiveness, Gen, Illnesses, Lowercase, Minor Violence, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Protective Stan Pines, Stan Pines Also Needs A Hug, Stan Pines is a Good Brother, Swearing, but they're improving !!!!, coincidentally, for the #aesthetic, ford feels super guilty about killing his brother and like, fortunately they are there to hug each other, references to the same coin theory but nothing concrete, that's fair, these boys love each other even if theyre really bad at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: ford can’t stop thinking aboutold yellerthat night, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling. he couldn’t do it, he thinks. he couldn’t ever shoot his own dog, no matter what.“well,” stanley says pragmatically the next morning, pretending like he doesn’t care as much as ford knows he does, “since he was sufferin’ and all, it was really better for him to be dead, wasn’t it? not much point in being alive if your whole life is terrible and you’re a danger to everybody you ever loved.”something cold and sharp takes up residence in ford’s stomach. he doesn’t like hearing stanley say stuff like that. he doesn’t like it atall.“i wouldn’t do it,” ford insists. “no matter what, i wouldn’t. there’s always another way.”“heh. yeah, i bet you’d find another way, brainiac,” stanley teases, reaching over to muss ford’s hair. ford swats him away. stanley can make fun all he wants—ford still spends all night thinking about cures for rabies.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 30
Kudos: 178





	putting the dog to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings: illness, nausea, vomiting, child abuse + neglect, violence, blood, injuries, discussions of death and murder**
> 
> guys do you ever just like,,,think about how ford must have felt shooting stan and knowing that he was more or less murdering his own brother because,,i do,,i do a lot,,
> 
> [putting the dog to sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg8Ckamh8Gw) by the antlers  
> [old yeller](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HyGCj00UBU8) by disney

_"he made me so mad at first that i wanted to kill him. then, later, when i had to kill him, it was like having to shoot some of my own folks. that's how much i'd come to think of the big yeller dog."_

* * *

in the fourth grade, mrs. lewis hands ford a tattered paperback with a picture of a yellow mongrel on the front of it. it’s their reading for the month—ford, of course, will have it finished within the week. he could have it finished sooner, but ma doesn’t like it when he stays up reading all night. when he gets home that afternoon, stanley has the same book.

 _“old yeller,_ huh?” he asks, thumbing through the dog-eared pages before tossing the book onto their desk. “let me know what happens.”

ford scrambles up into his bunk and flashes his brother a thumbs-up before settling in to read. the book smells like old paper, and the pages are yellowed and worn soft beneath the pads of his fingers. the writing is mediocre at best, and the culture of the deep south in the early twentieth century is strange, to say the least. still, he finds the subject matter compelling. he’s never had a dog—pa says they can’t afford one, and that they’re all dirty and destructive anyway—but reading about old yeller, he thinks maybe he can see the appeal. 

it’s nice, he thinks, to have a friend that’ll stick up for you no matter what.

stanley peeks up over the top of ford’s bunk, yawning. “you ain’t done with that yet?”

“what?” ford tears his eyes away from the pages, squinting. through their window, he can see the dark sky outside, and he has no idea where the time went. when did the sun set? “oh. you can turn the light off if you want. i’ll read by the lamp.”

stanley steps off of his own bunk and back to the floor, and ford follows him down. he takes the ladder, this time, since pa’s home and he’ll start shouting if he hears jumping all over the place. as stanley crawls into bed, ford settles in at the desk and flicks their lamp on, flooding the room in warm yellow light. he’s at a good part in the book—old yeller’s just about to save his family from a bear, and ford has to bite his tongue and wince every time the dog gets hurt. 

“that good, huh?” stanley asks sleepily. when ford glances over at him, bemused, he finds his brother buried under the blankets with just his eyes and nose sticking out. “you’re makin’ funny faces. must be good.”

“yes, it’s compelling,” ford agrees, rubbing a thumb over the blocky black print on the pages.

“can you read it to me?”

“you won’t know the beginning of the story.”

“that’s okay. just ‘till i fall asleep.”

ford settles back into the desk chair, and it creaks softly beneath his weight. he clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and begins, “he made me so mad at first that i wanted to kill him…’”

they finish the book that night. ford can barely read the ending, his voice cracking around the sudden lump in his throat. stanley’s already bawling, burying his noises—and his snot—against his pillowcase. they both decide, very vehemently, that they hate _old yeller._ what kind of a monster would write a book like that? what kind of a monster would—would make a little kid shoot his very best friend? 

it’s not fair. ford can’t stop thinking about it that night, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling. he couldn’t do it, he thinks. he couldn’t ever shoot his own dog, no matter what. 

“well,” stanley says pragmatically the next morning, pretending like he doesn’t care as much as ford knows he _does,_ “since he was sufferin’ and all, it was really better for him to be dead, wasn’t it? not much point in being alive if your whole life is terrible and you’re a danger to everybody you ever loved.”

something cold and sharp takes up residence in ford’s stomach. he doesn’t like hearing stanley say stuff like that. he doesn’t like it at _all._

“i wouldn’t do it,” ford insists. “no matter what, i wouldn’t. there’s always another way.”

“heh. yeah, i bet you’d find another way, brainiac,” stanley teases, reaching over to muss ford’s hair. ford swats him away. stanley can make fun all he wants—ford still spends all night thinking about cures for rabies.

* * *

_“he’d hit the ground rolling, yelling off the pain of the blow; but somehow he’d always roll to his feet.”_

* * *

“get away from my brother!” stanley shouts, and then he lunges. crampelter drops ford and whirls around to face stanley, instead, but he’s not fast enough—stanley’s fist catches him in the nose, _hard._ even ford, still mid-fall, hears it crunch. crampelter cries out and stumbles backwards in the sand, his hands coming up to cup his nose as blood bursts from it. then ford hits the ground, yelping as his elbow bashes a sharp stone, and stanley’s eyes whip towards him. 

“you,” crampelter hisses, lashing out and grabbing the collar of stanley’s shirt with one blood-streaked hand. he hauls stanley up, off of the ground, and ford scrambles to his feet with a cry of alarm. “you little _bastard._ i’m gonna make you regret that.”

“oh yeah?” stanley is so _small_ compared to crampelter, but he still kicks at the air in blatant defiance, his fists up. “bring it!”

crampelter brings it. he pries his other hand away from his bloody nose and slams it forward, into stan’s face. ford’s blood _boils_ when he hears his brother’s howl of pain, and he lurches towards crampelter. he hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s going to do. all he knows is that he has to get his twin away from this jerk, and fast. so he smashes one fist into crampelter’s gut, and to his delight, crampelter doubles over and drops stanley. 

so maybe ford isn’t like stanley. he doesn’t have any cool things to say, or even any good fighting moves—but he sure does try his hardest when crampelter lashes out at him, because _nobody_ gets away with hurting ford’s little brother. as soon as he’s picked up, he claws for crampelter’s eyes and swings a foot up and into his crotch. barely a second later, stanley lunges into the fray beside him, eyes wild and face masked with blood. it’s terrifying for so many reasons. 

still, the fight is two against one, and crampelter doesn’t stand a chance without his back-up cronies. he staggers away from them barely a minute later, bruised and bleeding, with a mouthful of swears and bloody saliva and promises of revenge. ford doesn’t disbelieve those promises. he and stanley will need to be on the lookout from now on; if crampelter finds them with his friends, they’re dead. they’re so, so dead. 

“and don’t come back!” stanley hollars after crampelter, his hands still balled into fists and his chest heaving. his nose is crooked. “or i’ll—i’ll—”

“stanley,” ford hisses. 

stanley falls quiet, panting. for a moment, the two of them stand together in silence, catching their breaths. ford can’t wait to leave this town and all of this garbage behind. he can’t wait to go somewhere guys like crampelter can’t ever follow—somewhere like college. dumbasses like crampelter would never make it there. 

“are you okay?” stanley asks, finally tearing his eyes away from crampelter’s retreat to look at ford. ford winces as he does—his brother looks _awful._

“i’m fine. you’re the one who looks like you got hit by a truck.”

“that good, huh?” stanley offers him a crooked grin. 

ford rolls his eyes, reaching up to touch stanley’s nose—stanley winces as soon as he does, hissing through his teeth. “hold still, hold still,” ford chastises, and stanley looks miserably at him but does hold still. ford tries to be gentler, the next time he touches the bridge of stanley’s nose. his fingers come away sticky with blood. “jeez, i think you broke it.”

 _“i_ didn’t break _shit,”_ stanley says, clearly affronted. 

“i don’t know about that. crampelter’s nose didn’t look much better,” ford says, a small grin flickering across his face. his brother’s kind of a badass. his smile fades quickly, however, as he considers their options. “we’re gonna have to tell ma and pa.”

stanley winces all over. “what for? i don’t need to go to the hospital for this, and it’s not like pa’ll pay for it, anyhow. it’ll just heal a little crooked, that’s all. make me look cool.”

“they’re going to know something happened anyway. we both look…” ford glances down at himself—his elbow’s bleeding sluggishly where he bashed it, he’s sure he’s got bruises forming all over his chest and arms, and his knees are scraped. “not so great.”

stanley’s shoulders slump. “they’re gonna be pissed.”

“what’s new?”

“easy for you to say,” stanley says, his voice suddenly scathing. “it doesn’t matter if they’re mad at you. they’ll get over it as soon as you bring home your next test grade. pa’s gonna hold this over my head forever.”

ford wants to protest, but he knows it’s true—as _infuriating_ as that is. “pa’s a jerk,” ford says, scowling. “don’t let him get to you.”

stanley scoffs, glancing away.

“look, i know it’s not that easy, but…” ford sighs, reaching up to touch stanley’s shoulder. “hey. hey, come on, come here.”

stanley grudgingly lets ford pull him into a hug. his chin is sharp against ford’s shoulder, and his fingers undoubtedly leave blood stains where he braces them against ford’s back. he’s still breathing hard, his shoulders tense. 

“i’m sorry,” ford says, finally, because that’s all he _can_ say. nothing will make pa’s rejection of stanley feel any better. “and thank you. you didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“do what? sixer, the guy was gonna pummel you. i couldn’t just stand back and watch.”

ford turns his head, pressing his temple to stanley’s. 

“i’d never leave you behind,” stanley continues, more gently. “your fights are my fights. that’s what brothers are for, right?”

“right.” ford gives him one last squeeze, then pushes him back. “but brothers are _also_ for keeping each other out of trouble. let’s get you cleaned up. maybe if we don’t look so awful, ma and pa won’t be so mad.”

they retreat to the stan ‘o war, a mile or so down the beach, and ford hauls out their first aid kit. he washes the blood from his own hands and elbow, wincing at the sting of the saltwater, before turning to help clean stanley’s face. stanley packs gauze into his nose, complaining the whole while—for such a tough guy, he sure does whine a lot, and ford tells him so.

“yeah, well, you try shovin’ a whole-ass cotton ball into your skull while you’re bleedin’ everywhere,” stanley gripes, his voice comically pinched by the obstruction in his nose. ford can’t help laughing, and oh, if that doesn’t just make stanley grumpier. “oh, yuck it up. see if i save you next time.”

ford definitely yucks it up. he flops out onto the floor of the boat and laughs—then laughs even harder whenever stanley grouches about it, because he sounds so darn _funny,_ trying to talk tough when he’s all nasally like this. but there’s an amused glint in his eyes, too, as he watches ford, and relief rolls over the both of them in waves. they’re safe. they’re together. they’re gonna be okay.

“jerk,” stanley says, kicking him gently in the ribs—gently enough that he doesn’t even jar any of ford’s fresh, forming bruises. “get up already. how’s your elbow?”

“i’m fine.” ford sits up, trying to choke back his residual giggles. it’s hard. every time stanley talks, a quivering smile stretches across ford’s face. “your, ah—your nose. we’ll let the swelling go down, and i’ll see about resetting it for you, if you really don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“i don’t mind a crooked nose much, really.”

“nonsense. i’m sure it can’t be _that_ hard. i think it’s only a closed reduction.”

“a…?”

“it’ll be easy,” ford says, waving stanley off. 

they get home later that afternoon and manage to hightail it to their bedroom without running into ma or pa. they change into clean clothes, and then go to face their parents when dinnertime rolls around. stanley had been right—pa tears them both a new one, but what’s new, right? ford scrambles to take the blame, the way he always tries to, and stanley glares at the table while he does (but he doesn’t protest, because they both know damn well that pa’ll scold ford a lot more gently than he’d ever scold stanley). 

later that night, they ice stanley’s nose to reduce the swelling, and they research the precise methodology behind the variety of different nose fracture treatment options—well, ford does that, mostly, while stanley grumbles and groans and clutches a bag of frozen peas to his face like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. once he’s confident in his plan, ford takes a seat on his brother’s bunk and jostles his shoulder.

“sit up now,” he says, “and i’ll fix your face.”

“i told you, i really don’t—”

 _“i_ mind.” ford’s eyes skitter away when stanley glances at him, clearly surprised. “i don’t like it when you’re hurt because of me.”

“ford…”

“please, stanley.”

stanley sits up, and he lets ford hold his face and tilt it this way and that in the light. his nose isn’t too bad, really—just a little squashed to one side, bruised and swollen. it’ll be a quick fix. ford braces his fingers against stanley’s nose, taking a deep breath.

“is this gonna hurt?” stanley asks. he sounds more curious than he does worried.

“a little,” ford admits, “but it’ll be fast. try not to jump. on three?”

“on three.”

“one, two—” ford shoves his fingers to the side, and he hears an awful _crunch_ as stanley’s bones shift. stanley wheezes, too breathless to shout. “three. see, all better.”

stanley brings a hand up to his nose, his eyes watering. “holy moses. i think that hurt worse than actually getting it broken. damn, sixer, you’re mean.”

“don’t be so dramatic.” ford scoops up the frozen peas, gently pressing them to stanley’s nose again and grimacing when his brother winces. he feels awful about causing stanley pain, and he feels awful about being the reason stanley’s in pain in the first place, and—well, and he just feels awful all over about everything, really. “hey. one day we’re gonna get out of here and we won’t ever have to deal with guys like crampelter again.”

“hell yeah we are.”

“we’ll take the boat and we’ll sail away, as far as we can, and we’ll never have to fight anybody ever again. just you, me, and the open sea.”

“and we’ll find all kinds of treasure! monsters, and adventure, and babes, and—and _gold,_ ford, i want _gold.”_

“well, tacky, but—hey, whatever. we’ll get you so much gold, stanley.”

“we’ll have enough to rebuild the whole stan ‘o war out of it, i bet.”

“that wouldn’t be very buoyant.”

stanley guffaws. “then we’ll just have to get enough to gold to bribe the guy who wrote the laws of physics! bet we could get him to change them. anybody’ll do anything, for a price.”

“ever the optimist,” ford says wryly. 

* * *

_“he began to yell: ‘he’s my dog. you can’t kick him. he’s my dog!”_

* * *

“—next time, you no good piece of shit!” pa snarls, shoving stanley’s shoulder. stanley stumbles back, his eyes wide. ford’s twin will fight just about anything, but he won’t fight pa, and that makes this little song-and-dance of theirs _so much worse._ ford lurches to his feet as soon as pa lays hands on stanley. ma’s already shouting at them, but ford can’t hear her through the sudden, high-pitched buzzing in his ears. 

“there isn’t gonna _be_ a next time, pa, i told ya,” stanley says. he stumbles back when pa steps forward, reaching down to brace a hand on the kitchen table. he jars a plate, and it crashes to the ground and splits into pieces. pa’s eyes get even darker. “shit! sorry, i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to—”

“you never mean to do anything.” pa reaches forward, curling his fingers up into the collar of stanley’s shirt and shoving him until his shoulders hit the wall. stanley doesn’t even try to push back, his chest heaving and his eyes wide. “that’s your _problem._ maybe if you fuckin’ thought about what you were doing for once in your life, you wouldn’t be such a pain in my ass. this is the third time you’ve been suspended this semester!”

“i didn’t—i wasn’t—”

“you were fightin’ again,” pa says, showing his teeth. ford’s fingers shake. he wants to tear pa off of stanley, wants to drag stanley away from this mess he’s gotten himself into, wants to retreat and lay low with his brother until pa’s anger has cooled. he knows the second he speaks up, though, pa’ll turn on him. sometimes that’s better. sometimes it’s worse. for all ford’s intelligence, he’s still never learned how to predict his father. “if you want a _fight,_ stan, i’ll damn well give you one.”

then pa reels back, his left hand curling into a fist, and ford can’t tear his eyes away from the heavy gold ring on his father’s finger. that’s going to hurt. that’s really. that’s going to hurt. 

stanley doesn’t try to move. there’s an old, tired defeat in his eyes.

ma screams.

and ford? ford lunges. 

pa shouts as ford slams into him, and they both go tumbling across the kitchen. ford scrambles backwards as soon as he can, his eyes wide and his heart hammering. he doesn’t want to hurt pa—doesn’t even want to touch him, or speak to him, or be near him at all, really. ford’s not a fighter. whatever burst of protective anger let him jump at pa, it’s fading fast, now that stanley’s safe, and ford wilts and tries desperately to make himself small and meek when pa’s burning gaze turns on him.

“it wasn’t his fault,” ford says, and he hates how small his voice sounds—but he doesn’t dare make it any bigger. “those jerks at school started it. he was just—”

pa starts forward again, but ma thrusts herself between them. “don’t you dare,” she says, her voice sharp as glass. “don’t you _fucking_ dare, filbrick pines.”

pa draws up short, his lip curling. “you’re both coddling him,” he says. “no wonder he keeps gettin’ into trouble! he won’t learn ‘cause we won’t _punish_ him, caryn. he’s a no-good, lazy bastard, and the longer he gets away with it, the worse—”

“upstairs,” ma says, glancing over her shoulder at stanley and ford. her eyes are dark and cold. “both of you. upstairs, now.”

ford doesn’t protest. he darts out of the kitchen as soon as he can, grabbing stanley’s sleeve and dragging him along behind. the two of them shut themselves into their bedroom, and ford barricades the door with their desk. he knows it won’t do any good, not if pa really wants to get inside—they’d both learned that the hard way when they were little and trying to avoid their father’s belt. 

“you didn’t have to do that,” stanley says, and his voice is quieter than it should be. he sounds exhausted. he sounds old. 

“don’t be stupid, stanley.” it’s the wrong thing to say. stanley flinches all over, hunching his shoulders. “i mean—ah, jeez. you’re not stupid.”

stanley looks like he very much wants to protest. ford barrels ahead before he can.

“but he was gonna hit you,” ford says, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the floor. “i wasn’t gonna let him do that. he’s got no _right_ to do that. you already got in trouble for fightin’. i don’t see why he has to go and make it worse.”

“maybe he’s right.” stanley’s voice sounds thick, and ford can see his hands shaking. “maybe i’m too stupid to learn any other way. maybe he oughta just—”

“maybe he oughta just mind his own damn business!” ford snarls, and stanley looks at him, wide-eyed. anger burns, sharp and quick, in ford’s chest. how dare pa make stanley feel like this. how dare _anybody._

“we kinda are his business, ford.”

“are we? we don’t see him unless he’s gettin’ onto us about something,” ford spits. “don’t ever talk to him unless it’s about grades or boxin’ or givin’ him grief. he doesn’t care about us. he cares about how we make him look. and even if we _were_ his business, he’s got no right to treat you like that! bad—bad business management, that’s what that is. hmph.”

stanley laughs. the noise is a little disbelieving, all cracked around the edges, but it softens ford’s rage all the same. “well jeez, don’t tell him that.”

“not like he’d listen anyway,” ford mutters. “what’s he care? he’s gonna do whatever he wants, and we’ve got no say in it.”

stanley kicks gently at him. “hey. we’re not gonna be here forever. you remember where we’re goin’?”

“on an adventure,” ford says, and he thinks of wide open spaces, of blue skies, of _freedom—_ he thinks of university. he’ll move out, one day, and he’ll never come back to this town. he won’t have his parents and his teachers clinging to him anymore. he won’t have to be the _good kid,_ won’t have to be the _perfect student,_ won’t have to be _nerd_ and _freak_ and _wimp._ he won’t have to be anything. 

stanley reaches up and ruffles his hair. “you got that right, buddy. we’ll say goodbye to this place and never look back.”

“yes. precisely. but until then…” ford sighs, his shoulders slumping. “i’m sorry you have to put up with him.”

“hey, it’s alright. it doesn’t matter.”

 _“yes,_ it _does._ it’s not fair. it’s not right. you’re miserable, and i can’t do anything about it, and—”

“what? i’m not miserable. i’m—” stanley’s smile wobbles at the edges, and ford’s heart cracks. “i’m okay, really. it’s like you said. we barely see the guy, anyway, and even he can’t get me down for long. i’m just dandy. i’m—”

ford hugs him, burying his face against stanley’s shoulder. stanley locks up, and ford hates their father for that, too—for making this affection between them so _difficult,_ for pitting them against each other at every turn and always, always, _always_ turning stanley into ford’s shadow. stanley doesn’t deserve that. stanley deserves to be happy.

...and how can stanley ever be happy, if he’s always trailing behind ford?

but ford can’t think of stanley doing anything else (and oh, how he _tries),_ so he only tightens his grip and squeezes his eyes shut and wishes he was smaller, so he didn’t cast so much of a shadow. 

stanley breathes in shaky jolts against ford’s neck, and ford knows he wants to cry. he used to cry all the time. he used to bawl and scream and shout whenever he didn’t get his way, but pa whipped that out of him. now he’s tense, and secretive, and so wrapped up in toxic _bullshit_ that ford bets he doesn’t even understand what he’s feeling, himself. he just wipes his eyes against ford’s jacket, and then pulls back and smiles that awful, wobbly smile again. 

“it’s okay, sixer,” he says, squeezing ford’s shoulders. “really.”

it’s not okay. ford’s beginning to wonder if it ever will be.

* * *

_“‘we’re playing like he’s sick, and when your dog is sick, you have to be real careful with him.’”_

* * *

ford and stanley tend to get sick at the same times—not because they’re genetically predisposed to it, but because it’s awfully hard to not share germs when you share a whole life with somebody. stanley spent most of the night retching his guts up, so ford’s already resigned himself to doing the same at some point within the next week. right now, though, he’s got one clingy, cranky twin to tend to.

“this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” stanley moans, because he’s nothing if not dramatic. “i’m going to die.”

ford clicks his tongue against his teeth. “you are not, you big baby. you’d feel better if you got some sleep.”

stanley shakes his head stubbornly. ford groans and leans back against the wall, defeated. trying to change stanley’s mind once he’s got it made up is like trying to rearrange the ocean currents. it simply doesn’t happen. so instead of trying to argue, ford cracks his textbook open to prepare for his test on monday. he’s sat on stanley’s bunk (did he mention stanley gets _clingy_ when he’s sick?), his brother curled up beside him with glazed eyes and a sweat-stiff hair. this, of course, is a very inconvenient position to be in if he actually wants to get any work done.

stanley squirms, reaching up to tug his sleeve.

ford sighs. “yes, stanley?”

“i’m bored.”

“would you like a book?”

“ew, no.”

“then what would you like?”

“i dunno. talk to me?”

“you only want me to talk to you so you won’t fall asleep. i’m not indulging this behavior.”

“sixeeeer,” stanley whines. “c’mon. i have weird dreams when i sleep.”

“you wouldn’t have weird dreams if you took the medicine ma brought you.”

“i don’t need medicine. i’m not _that_ sick.”

ford’s going to put his own head through a wall. there simply is no reasoning with stanley when he’s like this. “be quiet, please. i need to study.”

“what, you? study? pfft. you’re tellin’ me you aren’t good at this already, poindexter?”

“contrary to popular belief, i do not simply absorb information through osmosis,” ford says irritably. he hates it when stanley treats him like other people do—like he’s something grand and inhuman and magically _better_ at everything. maybe it’s petty to complain about, but he never _wanted_ everyone’s crushing expectations on his shoulders. he never _wanted_ his life to revolve around what other people wanted instead of—

“ford, pay attention to meee!”

“stanley,” ford snaps. “enough, already.”

stanley winces. the tone of ford’s voice must have been serious enough, because he finally gets quiet, and before long, his eyelids are drooping. he fights it—of course he does, stubborn bastard—but eventually he sleeps there, tucked against ford’s side while ford thumbs through pages and pages of high school physics. ford feels a little guilty about snapping at him, but sometimes it’s just—

it’s hard, the way stanley clings. it feels like being smothered. 

still, ford loves him, and he understands why stanley clings so damn hard. ford and ma are the only real friends he’s got, after all. shermie’s nice enough to him, but he doesn’t come around often, now that he’s got his wife. and ford can relate, really; ma and stanley are about all he has, too. but they won’t be all for long—as soon as he’s out of here, he’s going to have the chance to make so many new friends, and learn so many new things, and he’s just about buzzing with the excitement of it all. he’ll miss stanley, of course, but he knows his brother will understand. they’ve always wanted each other to be happy.

ford sighs fondly, reaching down to run his fingers through stan’s short, wiry curls. _besides,_ he thinks, _stanley will be happier if we have some time apart. he won’t have to live in anyone’s shadow anymore. he can be_ himself. 

ford lingers next to his brother for almost an hour, but eventually he has to extract himself and move to the desk so he can work some practice problems. stan stirs as he moves, a frown flickering across his face, until ford tucks the blankets up around his shoulders. he settles then, but he doesn’t stay settled. ford’s only finished a couple of problems when he suddenly jolts awake, sitting upright with wide eyes. 

“ford?” he asks. he sounds scared.

“it’s okay,” ford says, moving to rest a hand against stanley’s forehead. he’s burning up. dratted stubborn thing—ford’s going to make him take his medicine whether he likes it or not. “i’m right here.”

“i had a really weird dream. you were there. you were there, and there was—there was all this lightning, this really bright lightning, and it smelled like burning and i was—i—” stanley swallows hard, then lurches for the wastebasket. ford winces and sits beside him, rubbing his back in slow, steady circles as he retches. stanley finally leans back, groaning. “shit.”

“you need to take some medicine, stanley.”

“ford, i—”

“i’m serious.”

“and i’m _sorry.”_

“what? what for?”

“i—i—” stanley swipes at his eyes, taking a shaky breath. “i dunno. shit. give me the medicine.”

ford hands him the medicine, along with a glass of lukewarm water from the bedside table, and he watches worriedly as stanley downs it in a single gulp. he takes the glass back once it’s empty, setting it aside before taking a seat next to his brother again. he leans his side against stanley’s, a solid line of comfort. 

“i’m gonna get you sick,” stanley mumbles sullenly, trying to shift away. ford exhales softly and lets him. “‘m fine. ‘m just gonna...go back to sleep.”

“that’s probably a good idea.” ford stands, then hesitates. he slips out of the room and returns with a cool, damp washcloth—he drapes this over his brother’s forehead, ruffling his sweaty hair as he does. “feel better, stan.”

stanley peeks up at him, eyes red-rimmed and weary. “stanford?”

“mm?”

“will you tell me again? where we’re goin’ after graduation?”

“you really should be sleeping.”

“please.”

ford takes a deep breath, then sits on the bed again. it’s a story he’s telling—a story to make stanley feel better, that’s all. it isn’t a promise. it hasn’t felt like a promise in a long, long time. “we’re gonna get out of here as soon as we have our diplomas. we’ll get on the stan ‘o war and go north. we’ll leave this whole place behind and never look back. we’ll be whoever we wanna be, out there.”

“and we’ll always have each other.”

ford bites his tongue. he tastes copper. “stanley, do you ever think…” he clears his throat, tries again. “do you ever think you’d be happier if i wasn’t there with you?”

“what?” stanley sits bolt upright, his eyes wide. the washcloth falls from his forehead to his lap with a wet _flop._ “no way! of course i want you there with me. you’re my brother. why the hell would i be happier without you? what brought this on?”

“it’s not—it’s just—”

“is it something crampelter said? or pa? they’re wrong, you know. i don’t care what anybody says—you’re a great guy, ford, and i don’t wanna do any adventuring without you.”

“ah.” ford was afraid he’d say that. “well, thank you. but don’t you get tired of it? being—being compared to each other all the time? what if that doesn’t change, even when we leave?”

“it will,” stanley says, utterly confident. “don’t worry. things are gonna be better out there.”

ford...isn’t so sure.

“okay,” he whispers. he presses a palm flat to stanley’s chest, pushing him back to the bed. “okay. go back to sleep, stanley. i’ll be here when you wake up.”

and he is. he’s there, at stanley’s side. he’s always there.

* * *

_"it was going to kill something inside of me to do it, but i knew then that i had to shoot my big yeller dog."_

* * *

turning his back on stanley feels like cutting off a limb, and ford feels all the lighter for it. he won’t realize how much it’s crippled him until later. 

but for now? for now, he can _breathe._ he can cast a shadow without worrying about who he’s casting it over. he can stop feeling so choked, and heavy, and attached. he doesn’t have to worry about stanley pissing pa off anymore. he doesn’t have to worry about stanley fighting with crampelter anymore. he doesn't have to worry about stanley getting hurt, about stanley getting into trouble, about _stanley._

besides, stanley’ll be fine. he’s good at people. he’s boisterous and sociable and he’ll get along well as soon as he’s out of this damnable town and away from pa (away from _ford,_ who always made him feel inferior). he’ll probably get a job at a mechanic shop or something. he’s good at that—at cars. he’ll be fine. 

(he _has_ to be fine.) 

in the meantime, ford is _so fucking angry._ he’s never been this angry with anyone before. the betrayal catches like a knife between his ribs, sharp and unforgiving. how _could_ stanley? that project meant so much to ford. he’d put hours and hours and hours into it; he'd been so happy working on it, so excited! stanley knew how much it meant to him. it was ford’s chance to escape, to leave pa and glass shard beach behind, and stanley tore that chance to pieces—and for what? for a _dream?_

and that’s all it was, really. it was never going to be a reality. ford realized that when he was thirteen. boys don’t just build a ship and sail away; that’s the stuff of fairy tales. he thought stanley was just clinging to that old dream because he was scared to grow up, but then they’d gotten older and older and stanley still hadn’t given up and ford had been so terribly frightened. was stanley really going to hold him to a foolish plan they’d made when they were _seven?_ ford hadn’t known anything when he was seven! he hadn’t even known newtonian physics!

it wasn’t fair. it wasn’t fair of stanley to expect that from him. it especially wasn’t fair for stanley to _demand_ that of him, to break his things and crush his dreams so ford would go play _little sailor boy_ with him. ford’s eyes sting at the thought. he’d trusted stanley. he’d really—he’d thought stanley would understand. he’d thought stanley would be proud of him for getting into west coast tech. he’d thought—

fuck. it doesn’t matter what he’d thought. he’d been wrong.

ford is so _tired_ of people leeching off of him. he is so tired of making himself smaller so his shadow doesn’t stretch as far. he is so tired of the disappointment in pa’s eyes and the expectation in ma’s. he is so tired of being a kid in a backwater town, one half of a whole. he is so tired of being stanley’s brother.

he’s not, now, so. that’s something.

(he cries himself to sleep that night. he cries for his project, for his broken dreams, for his shame and his guilt and the terrifying loneliness in his chest. he cries for stanley.) 

the next morning, he picks himself up, dusts himself off, and gets right back to _casting a fucking shadow._ he refuses to feel guilty about it, this time. he _is_ smart. he _is_ good. he _is_ going to be a great damn scientist, and fuck anybody who wants to guilt-trip him about it. he graduates. he goes to backsupmore and does a damn fine job there. he meets fiddleford, and goes to grad school, and gets his grant money.

then he moves to gravity falls, and the rest is history.

* * *

_"i reloaded my gun and called old yeller back from the house. i stuck the muzzle of the gun against his head and pulled the trigger."_

* * *

a long time ago, ford thought he’d never be able to shoot his dog. 

now he lowers the memory gun, and he levels the muzzle between stanley’s eyes. 

one shot. quick, clean, humane. that’s all it has to be. ford’s hand shakes. he can’t pull the trigger. he can hear the children shouting behind him, but only vaguely. there’s a thick, heavy buzzing in his ears, and the whole world smells like ozone. _you’re not really killing him,_ he tries to tell himself, but he knows it’s a lie—and he’s never been a good a liar, not like stanley. 

today, stanford pines will kill his brother. all that will be left is a body, a shell, a _husk_ in his image. in some ways, ford thinks that’s worse.

he knows he can’t wait long—bill will tear his way through stanley’s mind in seconds, and then he’ll fit himself into stanley’s limbs. it should be a familiar fit for the demon, albeit a little slower, a little stiffer, ~~a little better.~~ it would be easier to wait until bill opened stanley’s eyes, until ford could look at that maddening yellow and remind himself that he’s killing an enemy. he can’t wait, though. not now. as soon as bill finds out he’s been tricked, he’ll attack, and none of them can risk that. if it was just ford himself, then…

but it’s not. he has the children to think about, and he will not let them die by their own uncle's hand.

a long time ago, ford thought he’d never be able to shoot his own dog, no matter how rabid or dangerous it became. a long time ago, he thought that there was always another way. a long time ago, he’d been a selfish, naive child with dreams too big for this world.

ford pulls the trigger, and he kills his brother.

* * *

_“'it’s not a thing you can forget. i don’t guess it’s a thing you ought to forget. what i mean is, things like that happen. they may seem mighty cruel and unfair, but that’s how life is part of the time. but that isn’t the only way life is. a part of the time, it’s mighty good.'”_

* * *

“stanford?” stanley peeks around the corner, his fez clutched between his palms. 

ford takes a deep breath and turns to look at him. can’t meet his eyes. not yet. “yes?”

“can we...talk?”

ford can’t stop his eyebrows from raising. talk? stanley wants to talk to _him?_ he’s been all over the kids since he remembered them, taking them on trips and playing games and letting them chat his ear off about their summer adventures. he’s not been so forward with ford, and ford can’t blame him. he doesn’t think stanley’s remembered who he is quite yet—maybe it’s better that he doesn’t.

ford hopes, selfishly, that he doesn’t.

“sure,” he says, closing his journal. “what can i do for you?”

stanley takes a seat on the couch, folding his hands between his knees and staring at the whorls in the floorboards. ford’s never liked those whorls. they look too much like eyes. “i remembered what i did to you. to your project, when we were younger,” stanley says quietly, and ford’s heart stops. “but i don’t remember apologizing it for it. that’s not to say i _didn’t,_ of course, but uh, just in case—i’m sorry. i’m really sorry, stanford.”

“it’s—no, no, that was a long time ago, you don’t need to—”

“it wasn’t fair. you should never be forced to choose between your family and your dreams,” stanley continues, stubbornly refusing to look at ford. “i never should have forced you to choose. you could have had both. i would’ve missed you while you were at university, but we could have made it work. instead, i fucked everything up for the both of us, and i’m sorry."

stanley takes a deep, shaky breath before turning to meet ford’s eyes. there’s something raw and desperate in his gaze when he speaks again. “but ford, i _need_ you to know it was an accident. i swear it was an accident. i mean, i—i meant to hit the table, but i didn’t mean to break your project. i tried to put it back together again, and it was still working when i left. i never wanted to force you to stay with me. i wanted you to _choose_ to stay, but i never would have forced you to.”

it should feel good, hearing stanley apologize. it should soothe over that old wound ford’s been carrying in his heart for so long. instead, it feels like rubbing salt in. it couldn’t have been an accident, could it have been? stanley had been so desperate to make him stay, back then. it was logical to assume it had been done on purpose—and the toffee peanuts had been there, and stanley had known about it, and—and—

and if it _was_ an accident (because stanley has no reason to lie to him about that, not now, not like this) then ford spent a decade ignoring his brother for fucking _nothing._

before ford can speak, stanley pushes on: “i’m not gonna make that same mistake now. you don’t have to choose. i, uh—i know you’ve been meaning to go to the arctic. the kids told me it’s a big dream of yours to sail out there. and i know you’re worried about me and my memory and all, but i’ll get along alright. i know enough to keep myself workin’, anyway, and i imagine soos and wendy’ll help out when you and the kids are gone. besides, we’ve both got phones now, don’t we? so we can call and all, and it’s not like we’ll never see each other.” he turns to look at ford, his eyes wet and determined. “so i want you to go. i want you to be happy. i don’t need you to stay here.”

ford feels like he’s been shot. he supposes he deserves that, really.

“no!” he says, surging to his feet. his eyes are already damp with tears, and he feels like he can’t _breathe_ through the lump in his throat and the breaking in his chest. “no, stanley, no i don’t—i don’t want to leave, i don’t—”

“woah, hey, ford—” stanley’s eyes widen with alarm, and he stands, too, holding his hands out like ford is some sort of wild, agitated animal. “you don’t _have_ to go. this is your house, right? if you want to stay, then i’ll—”

ford shakes his head adamantly, bringing his hands up to press them against the sides of his head. shit. shit shit shit. what kind of a brother is he? did he really abandon stanley because of an _accident?_ has he really made stanley feel so worthless? did he really condemn stanley to years and years of suffering and loneliness all because of some petty _grudge?_ because he thought they’d be better off alone? because he was an arrogant, selfish, _monster_ of a person? 

no wonder bill liked him so much.

“i never wanted you to leave,” ford says, swiping furiously at his eyes. “i loved you. you were my _brother._ but i wanted space, i wanted to go to school, i wanted to—to go somewhere i wouldn’t just be a freak, or pa’s moneymaker, or—”

“i know, i _know,_ it’s okay, it’s—”

“it’s not okay! i let him kick you out! i—i thought you’d be fine, i told myself you’d be fine, but you weren’t, were you? i don’t know what happened to you, but—”

“heh, that makes two of us, then.”

“stanley!” ford cries out, his voice cracking. how can stanley _joke_ about this? how can he still smile and laugh? how can he still be in the same room with ford, in the same room as the man who ruined his life, who condemned him to years wasted working on the portal, who made a deal with a demon and then _murdered him_ to fix his own mistakes? “it’s not funny! i ruined your life. i ruined _everything_ for you because i was selfish, and stupid, and—”

stanley drags him into a hug, his arms wrapping snugly around ford’s shoulders. ford’s face gets jammed against stanley’s shoulder, and he smells sweat and cheap cologne and cigar smoke. he freezes up, going stiff all over, because he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve stanley, he’s a murderer, he _murdered his own brother—_

“relax, poindexter,” stanley says, bringing one hand up to cradle the back of ford’s head. “you’re thinking too hard.”

“i killed you,” ford whispers, shaking. “did you know that? i killed you, stanley. not even m-metaphorically. i put a gun to your head and i _knew_ it would destroy you and i pulled the trigger anyway.”

for a moment, stanley is quiet, his fingers curling into ford’s hair. then he says, “...i know.”

“what?!”

ford tries to pull back, but stanley clings harder, and ford doesn’t have the heart to fight him the way he used to. _“relax,_ relax. i don’t remember everything, but a few days ago, i—yeah. i remembered that. there was, uh—this demon? and you trapped him inside my head to kill him. the way i see it, even if i _had_ actually died, it would have been worth—”

ford cries out again, despair and rage, and when he hauls backwards, this time stanley lets him go. "stop! stop it! you shouldn’t say things like that. you should be mad. you should _hate_ me. i killed you, stanley, don’t you get it? _i killed you!”_

 _i killed him,_ his mind echoes, in a sort of wondering horror. _i killed him. i killed him, i killed him, i killed him, ikilledhimikilledhimikilledhimikilled—_

stanley shakes his head. “what? of course i don’t hate you, ford. you were just doing what you had to do to save the kids—to save the whole world.”

“i wouldn’t have had to do it if i hadn’t fallen for bill’s trick in the first place,” ford spits, tangling his fingers in his hair and pulling until he feels prickles of pain. “i could have destroyed the world. i could have destroyed our family. i could have— _i tried to—_ destroy you. there is nothing forgivable about that.”

“well,” stanley says, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking on his heels. “tough shit, i guess, ford, ‘cause i forgive you.”

ford wants to scream. “you don’t understand,” he says instead. “you haven’t remembered everything. you can’t possibly know how much you ought to hate me.”

“i don’t think i ever hated you.”

“how would you know?”

“just a feeling.” stanley shrugs. “anyway, i don’t hate you now, so—get over it, i guess.”

“you— _you—_ how can you say that? after everything i’ve done to you—”

“i love you.”

ford’s mouth snaps shut. 

stanley clears his throat, cheeks pink, before repeating, “yeah, that’s right, i said it. i love you. and y’know, maybe i should be pissed, but i’m not. you were suffering too, back when we were kids, and—and when you shot me. maybe you weren’t suffering the same way i was, but you _were,_ and i wasn’t making it easier. i should have supported you and your dreams instead of making you feel guilty for having them, and i should have helped you find a way to stop bill before he got into my head. i’m just glad i could help you in the end.”

“so you made mistakes! that didn’t give me a right to completely rip you out of my life, or—or to try to take your life away.”

“maybe not. i’m no philosopher. what do i know about right and wrong? all i know is that you did what you had to do to stop bill, and i’m glad.”

“i’m not.”

“i know.”

“i don’t think i’ll ever be.”

stanley reaches forward again, and ford lets himself be tugged into another tight hug. this time, he burrows his face into the crook of stanley’s neck and tries very, very hard not to get tears on the collar of his shirt. he fails. he twists his fingers into the back of stanley’s shirt, breathing shakily and trying desperately not to think of the look on his brother’s face when he set his finger on the trigger and—and—

he whines, panicked, and stanley hugs harder.

“shh, sixer,” stanley murmurs, rubbing his back. “it’s okay. i forgive you, it’s okay, it’s _okay.”_

ford stays there for several long minutes, hiding from the world and letting his brother hold him up while he cries. he knows he doesn’t deserve stanley’s forgiveness—and maybe he never will—but he also knows that he can’t push stanley away again. he wants stanley in his life, no matter what. they’ve spent too long apart, struggling and fighting and suffering, and ford can’t be alone again. he _can’t._

“i don’t want to leave,” he mumbles.

“what?” stanley tries to push him back, but it’s ford who clings, this time. “stanford, buddy, you know i can’t understand you when you mumble.”

“i don’t want to leave,” ford tries again, louder. he props his chin on stanley’s shoulder, sniffling. “i don’t want you to leave, either. is that...okay?”

stanley swallows hard, leaning his head against ford’s. “yeah,” he whispers. “yeah, ford. that’s definitely okay. if you want me here, i’m not goin’ anywhere. but i don’t want you keepin’ me here just because you feel guilty. if you’re gonna be unhappy, then—”

“i do want to sail.” 

stanley’s shoulders slump slightly, so ford grips him tighter.

“but not without you!” he adds hastily. “i want—stanley, i want you to come with me. when you’re ready. when you’ve recovered. but only if that’s what _you_ want. if you’d rather stay here in gravity falls, then i’ll—”

“no way. are you kidding me? you want to sail around the world on a big adventure?” stanley draws back just enough to give him a toothy, excited smile. “that sounds amazing. you’re sure you want me, though? i don’t want to smoth—”

“i want you with me,” ford says firmly. he grips stanley’s shoulders, squeezing. “don’t ever think otherwise.”

“what if you need space?”

ford snorts. “i’ve had enough space to last me a few decades.”

stanley stares at him, bemused.

“it’s a space joke, and i—ah, i’ll explain later,” ford says. “i’ve just been away a while, and it’s been lonely. i don’t want to do that anymore.”

stanley’s eyes soften. “yeah,” he says. “yeah, okay. i get that.”

“i figured you would.”

“oh, and stanley?” ford clears his throat when stanley looks expectantly at him. “i love you too.”

stanley grins again, and ford can’t escape his hug for the next hour. he doesn’t mind—not really, not even a little bit, and he can’t pretend to, either. he finally has his brother back. against all odds, against years of paranoia and loneliness and isolation, he has a family, and he is _never_ letting go of that again.


End file.
